All the cuts have been made in precisely the right place. He removes the skull cap to expose the brain, by popping the loosening the corners with a Ragnell retractor where the saw didn’t connect the four channels. Reaching for a scalpel with a longer handle, he slices the tissue which connects the brain to the inside of the skull, cleanly.
With a few more delicate swipes of the blade, he removes the brain, reaching in with steady hands. Carefully. So carefully. He exhales long and slow. If he’s been holding his breath the entire time he is unaware of doing so, but it feels like he must have. He’s mildly dizzy with hope. He inhales and lets his breath out again, slowly, to release the stress which is building upon his shoulder making him want to shrug away the burning sensation. But he can’t shrug the stress away now. He must move his whole body in concert with the delicate organ he holds in his hands. Lily’s brain. Turning it to look at it from various angles, he frowns before lowering it to the autopsy table. The brain is completely unremarkable in every way.
The stool groans with the effort of supporting his full weight, as he settles back. He folds his bloody surgical gloves in his hands and sighs deeply shrugging the tightness and discomfort in his back and shoulders.
Unremarkable; the frontal lobe, the parietal lobe, and the basal ganglia, all appear to be normal. Disappointing to say the least. The color, the shape, and the size of the sulci and gyrus of the subject’s brain appear to be what he would have expected to find in a girl of Lily’s age, who had died from normal causes, but this girl is far from typical… far from human. She’s one of them. She’s Turned. Damn. There should have been something. Some swelling, some infection, or an anomalous finding.
He closes his heavy, aching eyelids. He rubs them hard, but not hard enough to rub out the sight of the normal brain. They are still closed when the sucking-sound gets his attention. He opens them sluggishly. Unremarkable, hell. The brain pulses in random places; the angular gyrus, the middle frontal gyrus, the superior temporal gyrus, and Wernicke’s area… almost imperceptive pulses, every one, but nonetheless… it was pulsing and only for a second or two, but it did pulse. It was more than electrical pulses or spasms. Something was pushing on the tissue from within. Like an unborn baby moving within its mother’s womb Something is on the inside of the brain itself.
Chapter Seven
“People die… Beauty fades… Love changes… And you will always be alone.”
Major Connors and Sergeant Hollander are hunkered down in the well-worn seats of a 1944 Ford, bomb service truck; its engine turned off a short while ago still pops and crackles as is cools in the late hours of the evening.
Sgt. Hollander takes what’s left of a stale, chewed-up cigar from the pocket of his fatigues. He picked it up from a handmade, clay ashtray, in an old abandoned house yesterday during a supply run. He tests the tip with his teeth, biting into it gingerly, not enough to break the dry wrapping.
Major Connors busies himself, scanning the sun-baked street before them for signs of movement. The truck is an awkward centerpiece at a four-way intersection, taking up a good portion of it. It’s not as if anyone will want to try to pass. The streets are empty of other moving vehicles and have been for a long time. There’re some cars still on the streets, but they’re only occupants are desiccated bodies. Those who waited too long to evacuate.
The bomb service truck’s nose points toward Elizabeth Street. It’s the best vantage point in town. Everywhere else is congested with bodies and debris or has way too many blind spots for the majors liking.
Four days and three nights away from Camp Able has placed Connors right on edge. He’s dirty, and he can smell himself. It’s not pleasant. Smelling Hollander’s reek is no treat either.
Hollander’s his same optimistic self, talking incessantly about how “When this is all over…” and “What I’ll do first is….” Connors ignores him as he always does when Hollander has nothing worthwhile to say.
Private White Deer; Camp Abel’s resident Chickasaw Indian, and Private Austin have been No Contact for over fifteen minutes, nineteen minutes to be more accurate, and that’s against protocol. But, Major Connors won’t call them on the radio. It might blow their position should they be squatting down somewhere and trying to keep a low profile.
“…a steak… this thick. Oh man, I can taste it. Can you taste it, Major?” Hollander holds his forefinger and thumb a good four inches apart measuring the imaginary steak. “Oh, and a tall glass of good ol’ Irish whiskey. Don’t forget the whiskey. The kind that burns all the way down and warms you from the top of your head all the way down to toes.”
He chews on the soggy butt of the cigar letting the tobacco juice slide down his throat, making it clear that he is relishing the moment with the looks of pure delight on his face. He spits out a small piece of tobacco leaf that sticks to the tip of his tongue, out the open driver’s side window, and continues to yammer with a gravelly southern drawl.
Connors is only half-listening, scrutinizing the street for any surprises. He reminds Hollander to be keeping his eyes on the three sixty.
Hollander squirms uncomfortably in his seat, repositioning himself and intensifying his focus on the buildings surrounding their position. It’s not long before he resumes the previous discussion. “When this whole thing is over, major, the first thing I’m going to do is find the first finest redhead I can, get a cheap motel room, rip her dress right off, and….” Static interrupts Hollander’s lewd thought process.
“—White Deer to Major Connors, come in, Major. Over.” The radio crackles unnervingly loud, but Connors doesn’t turn it down. The sotto voice of Private White Deer fades in and out on the SCR-536 walkie-talkie, mounted on the dashboard, cluttered with bottles and food wrappers.
The radio should be getting a better signal. The major figures the interference must be in correlation to the surrounding buildings and businesses along Elizabeth Street. He acknowledges the call by saying, “Connors here. Over.”
One lone bead of sweat dangles and drips from his pulsating right temple. It runs downward following Connors’s crow’s foot finally to wet his eyeball. He rubs away the sting of the perspiration. The Texas sun, slipping down the face of the sky, is scorching. Connors sometimes thinks it might be possible for the State of Texas to be closer to the sun than the rest of the planet, by at least a few million miles.
He is getting close to calling an end to the search. He bites his bottom lip, considering putting a search for his missing men to bed. The runners failed to return to base on time and were now, way overdue. “Any sign of the runners, White Deer? Over.” Harsh static answers Connors, initially. He waits for the signal to strengthen.
White Deer’s voice rises above the interference, but the first part of the message was lost to bad signal. “… but it doesn’t look too good, Major. We found Private Parson’s pack, full of groceries and meds, dropped right smack down in the middle of Fifth and South Point.”
Connors guts writhe, his mind settles in for the worst-case scenario; he’s lost two more men. He’s ready for this to end. He thought that staying put at Camp Able would limit the losses. And, he guesses it has, for the most part. That, and sticking close to the base for supply runs. Every now and then, though, you lose people, and every time he loses a man, he sets his mind to keeping with his plan, which is fortifying Able and staying close to home, for however long that may be. There’s no need to go anywhere and chance losing everything and get everyone killed.